


Not Again

by Sorted



Series: Dorian Pavus Cannot Be Troped [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Magical Accidental Groundhog Day, Sex, Time Loop, also a blindfold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 05:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20848511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorted/pseuds/Sorted
Summary: A magical accident lands Dorian in a one-day time loop - with the usual obliteration of all consequences.But Dorian is too awesome for traps and temptations.





	Not Again

**Author's Note:**

> *resurfaces from Arthdal Chronicles briefly* Oh, hello! Lookit that. DictionaryWrites made my little Adoribull heart so sad I had to happy it up again by finishing this friggin story I've been unable to finish for weeks and weeks because Arthdal Chronicles is so awesome that I died.
> 
> Now for some gay porn. ^_^

“All I’m saying is, you ever want to explore that, my door’s always open.”

Teeth on edge and witty ripostes temporarily used up, Dorian strode—not _stomped_—away from that conversation and back to Sera, his constant travel companion on this mission, by virtue of them being the ranged fighters. In passing Adaar, he shot a look at the _other_ massive qunari warrior. A most pointed Look.

“What?” she snorted at him. “He’s not _my_ fault.”

“His presence on this mission is,” Dorian dryly observed.

Sera was waiting with a smirk, and as they fell in behind their leader and began to head back to Redcliff, she elbowed him in the ribs—a nearly lethal prodding, given elven elbows. “Quit snooting, Dorian. You want it bad.”

He smiled. “My dear Sera, you’re projecting again.”

“Wot?”

“I mean,” he sighed, “you’re so besotted with your own Vashoth paramour that you are mistaking my quite natural disinclination for—”

“Too long, shut it!” she bellowed.

“Hey!” Adaar shouted back at them. “Piss off my sweetie and you can go back to camp instead of the Redcliff inn tonight.”

“I’d doubtless sleep better in a tent than in a room adjoining _yours_,” Dorian commented—under his breath.

“Say something?” Adaar hollered over her shoulder.

“Nothing at all, my dear illustrious leader,” Dorian answered, with perfect charm. After all, it was evening. They were near Redcliff, footsore and hungry—and the Inquisitor was snappish when she was hungry. But in less than an hour, with a roast goose in front of her and a tankard in hand and Sera on her lap, she’d be buying them all drinks.

And so she did.

The fact that Adaar, the massive Vashoth woman, could devour so much food was no surprise. That Sera could match her plate for plate was a bit mind-boggling. Dorian watched the spectacle with his usual fascination and amusement—he was easily entertained when Adaar supplied the alcohol.

“Nice work with the magic today, Dorian. You’re pretty good at blowing guys up.”

Before Dorian could stop him, the Iron Bull sat down beside him. Dorian controlled himself and did not lean away from the huge beast; he remained poised and completely untroubled.

“It’s significantly more impressive then hitting them with a sharp piece of metal.”

A deep laugh. “Don’t let the boss hear you saying that.”

“Maker forbid,” Dorian murmured into his drink, “she might cease to provide me with this awful swill.”

“Says the guy on his fifth.”

“Is that meant to be a pointed comment?” Dorian laughed lightly. “From the lummox on his eighth drink? Drinks you have been spiking from a flask since the third, I might add?”

The Iron Bull, maddeningly, just grinned. “You keep a pretty close eye on me, don’t you big guy?” He chuckled, and prevented a rebuttal by adding, “Counted all my scars yet? You’ve spent long enough eyeing them.”

Alas, Dorian’s answer was a bit delayed. Without showing anything, his first thought was: _How did he…?_ And then he realized, _He’s just making it up, he has no real idea_. Iron Bull, after all, did not have eyes in the back of his head. “A vain qunari—how novel,” he hummed. “I take it you think yourself rather attractive?”

An amiable shrug. “Just guessing from the way some people act.”

“Mm.” Dorian did not look at him, or his numerous scars, or the physique they covered. He watched Adaar and Sera canoodling—alternately stealing food from each other and feeding each other in a nauseating fashion. “Well, I am not like other people,” Dorian declared, “and my tastes do not follow the common fashion. If that even needed to be said.”

“Yeah?” The brute was undeterred. “So what do you like in your men?”

Dorian froze in his calm, disinterested appearance for a moment of shocked offense. _How dare he ask…_ Then, quickly calculating, he thought, _This could be a good opportunity. _“A distinct lack of blemishes,” he pronounced, “by which I mean that scarred skin is not appealing.” With a smile, he added, “A lean build…particularly, a flat abdomen and sharply defined hips. Clean-shaven, of course, but by no means hairless in other areas. Oh, _long_ hair,” he added, as if it had just occurred to him. “I like to pull it,” he said, sweetly. “Then, naturally—good teeth, fair complexion, clean fingernails, high-arched feet, pale nipples, a rather broad face…but handsome. And I needn’t add the more intimate details.”

Bull nodded. “So…Michel de Chevin, if his hair was longer?”

Dorian blinked. “Oh yes, he was lovely.”

Bull smirked. “His arches aren’t that high, though.” Dorian blinked, but before he could ask _And when did you see him barefoot? _the Bull added, “But you’d definitely approve of his dick.”

Dorian finally turned to stare. “You did not sleep with Michel de Chevin.”

Bull just blinked back at him. “Pretty sure I did.”

“He’s not interested in men. Don’t try to tell me I’m wrong; I can _tell_. If he had any such inclination, I’d have noticed.”

“I guess he didn’t, before.”

Dorian was speechless for a moment. Then: “And he decided to experiment with _you?_” Voice lowering to a baffled murmur, “But I’m so much more attractive…”

Bull, infuriatingly, laughed. “I guess you are, but you’re a mage from Tevinter.”

_Damn it_. Dorian had to admit that one. _Damn Southerners._ “How did you sway him, then?”

“Eh, talked shop for a while, over drinks. Blades and combat techniques and stuff. Then when he was comfortable, we talked sex. He took about a week to think about it before he came by.”

Controlling his sneer: “I suppose you think it’s simply inevitable that every man and woman you meet will give in to their uncontrollable desire for you sooner or later. Well.” Without waiting for a reply he stood, setting—not _slamming_—down his empty tankard, “What a shame for your record. You’ve finally met someone who isn’t interested in you.”

And, because he _knew_ what the brute would say, Dorian retired for the night before Bull could say anything prophetic, like the damnable little word “yet.”

\--

The Iron Bull snored.

This was not news to Dorian. Having camped with him often enough, he was accustomed to the noise. But for some reason, it was worse tonight. Perhaps it was the general quiet, once Redcliff was asleep. There was always so much background noise when camping out in nature that it all sort of blended together; not so, here. Perhaps it was because Bull had been drinking—that did tend to worsen the issue. Perhaps it was all the fault of Dorian’s sleepless mind, so easily distracted. Thoughts of the myriad missions they were wrapping up in the Hinterlands; thoughts of the morbid interest he always stamped out in himself when Iron Bull took off his armor for the night. Thoughts of how tiny this room was; how determined he was not to be flustered over sharing a bed. It was big enough—_just_. And it was a _bed_. Dorian was _grateful_.

Dorian was sleepless.

Dorian was going for a walk.

Redcliff was empty and silent and _chilly_, sadly, but the soft sounds of the water lapping at the hulls of fishing boats and dock pylons and rocks was soothing and peaceful—when one was comfortably on land. And the area was safe, and if Dorian should happen to meet any smugglers, well, they were probably in the Inquisition’s employ.

There were so many stars to be seen in the night sky above such a dark, quiet little town. Dorian searched through them for any familiar constellations until he began to shiver. Then, sadly still not sleepy, he went looking for somewhere a little warmer.

As it happened, the only building open was the chantry. It too was empty, though candles burned in the usual places. Dorian drifted closer to their light. It wasn’t exactly warm in here, but without the breeze from the sea, it felt warmer. Dorian strolled around, studying the décor of this quaint little southern chantry; not that he was interested, but his curious mind couldn’t entirely keep from comparing it to the Imperial chantries, explaining the differences he could explain and cataloguing the mysteries he couldn’t.

In passing back through the center of the room, Dorian’s steps slowed. Then he stopped, paused, and turned back to retrace the last two paces. Something here felt…odd. He felt it again as he passed in and out of…whatever it was. Then, when he’d confirmed the spot of the odd feeling, he reached one hand up, directly over his head.

As he’d thought, it was stronger above. Dorian squinted straight upward, but he saw nothing. He glanced around and realized: _This is exactly where that Rift was_. The one Adaar had closed when Dorian had first met her.

Curiosity flared to life again. _Is it possible to feel the Veil where it has been mended?_ Like running fingers over a seam in fabric—was it like that? Dorian had never had time to make a leisurely study of sealed Rifts. Usually the Inquisitor judged these things visually—and by the lack of more demons appearing. But if the Rift left a permanent snag, so to speak… Dorian reached out carefully with his magic to explore the feeling further.

The next moment, he felt…_grabbed_. He didn’t know by what. He saw nothing, but he _felt_ suddenly locked into the grip of something, and then a wash of dizziness came over him—literally _over_ him, as it seemed to fall right on his head—and then he blacked out.

\--

Dorian woke in a tent.

He started to get up and froze halfway there. He’d grown so accustomed to camping that it took him a moment to wonder why he wasn’t in the Redcliff inn. And in trying to remember how he got here…

_Wait…I was in the chantry. I think I lost consciousness…_

But all his efforts to retrieve any memory after that were met with black nothingness. Eventually, Dorian dressed himself and decided to just ask someone.

As soon as he left the tent, he began to feel an overwhelming sense of familiarity. Repetition. Adaar and Sera were snuggling by the fire, devouring porridge. Iron Bull was sharpening his axe. Dorian greeted them, and was about to ask what was going on when: “All right, first we clean up the last of those wolves at the farm. _Then_ we worry about a missing druffalo.”

_What?_ Dorian almost laughed, thinking Adaar was joking. They had taken care of all that yesterday… But Adaar wasn’t even speaking directly to him, and no one else raised any objections.

Immediately suspicious, Dorian kept his mouth shut and his eyes open and acted normally. He knew one thing—his last memory was of exploring a new magical phenomenon, and that meant anything was possible.

Perhaps he didn’t need to be so guarded around these people—his friends, most of them—but old habits died hard, and Dorian kept the matter to himself until he could determine what exactly was going on.

The day proceeded exactly as he remembered yesterday. They fought the same things, they completed the same missions, and Iron Bull ribbed him with the same lines. The only satisfaction Dorian got out of this surreal experience was that he had a better comeback now for “My door’s always open.”

“Yes, but the queue to get in wraps halfway around Skyhold.”

Adaar burst into raucous laughter. “Nice one!” She slapped Dorian on the back. “Oh, damn, he’s got you there!”

Bull grinned too, looking a little impressed. “All right, fair enough.” He winked. “I could let you skip the line if you ask real nice.”

Sera snorted. “Dorian’s only asks nice if he’s lining up his shot on you.” She elbowed him fondly—and just as painfully as the day before…or…as today. Before. “If he _really_ likes you, he’ll teach you his fancy swearing,” she grinned.

Unexpectedly, Dorian smiled warmly. “Very true,” he replied, wondering when Sera had gotten so perceptive that she understood the colder uses of high-society “manners.”

\--

The evening in Redcliff was downright unnerving. Dorian was able to replicate the conversation from the…from today-before, well enough. It hadn’t been so long that he would forget. But he had a damnably hard time focusing on what he was saying. He’d already said it. And there was a perverse instinct trying to get him to look at Iron Bull more than before—to see if he betrayed any knowledge of something strange being afoot, of course. Not for any other reason.

It was almost exactly the same. But Dorian forgot how the conversation had ended, and he failed to walk away at the right moment.

“How did you sway him, then?”

“Eh, talked shop for a while, over drinks. Blades and combat techniques and stuff. Then when he was comfortable, we talked sex. He took about a week to think about it before he came by.”

“A week?” He smirked. “Perhaps you didn’t seduce him after all. Perhaps he simply grew frustrated on his own time and changed his mind.” _Wait…did I say that before?_

“Maybe,” Bull admitted. “Maybe that happens to a lot of people, they just get an itch. Doesn’t bother me if they do.” He winked. “Same goes for you.”

“What?”

Bull raised a hand and waggled his fingers. “Nice claws, see? I’m good at scratching itches.”

_We definitely did not talk about this._ “Are you? Congratulations.” Dorian stood. “Good night.”

It was, perhaps, a less triumphant exit than the other, but Dorian was too eager for nightfall to think of that.

He barely managed to wait until Bull began snoring. Then he was up and out into the town, not bothering with the docks, but heading straight to the chantry.

It was different, now. There was something active, here.

He still couldn’t see it with his physical eyes, but Dorian could feel the presence of active magic before he reached the spot of the former Rift. He explored the area carefully without magic before daring to reach out with his magic. He wasn’t sure what would happen…

But nothing happened. He didn’t black out this time; he simply found the shape of something like a spell. It was an odd wrinkle in the Veil, and as he touched it, he felt instantly connected to it. Like two magnetized bits of metal snapping together.

Gently, he pulled away. He was still conscious…so perhaps whatever this was had simply knocked him out when it took effect? Perhaps it was safer now, stable? It almost felt like a spell, so perhaps the thing to do was to simply Dispel it?

Dorian hesitated to try it. He wasn’t terribly good at Dispel, though he had learned it and could use it in a pinch, such as when Rifts were opening up new holes for more demons. And he couldn’t be sure what would happen if he actively _cast_ something at this…Veil-wrinkle.

Instead, Dorian decided to study the matter further. He examined the wrinkle in every way he could think of, and when that yielded nothing new, he decided to test the situation.

He went back to the inn, and went to bed.

\--

He woke up in a tent.

_It must have something to do with time magic,_ he pondered as the day repeated itself again, cycling through the same little missions around the Hinterlands. _The Rifts around Redcliff were heavily affected by Alexius’ time magic. Perhaps I’ve jarred something loose… _“There’s the druffalo, over there,” Dorian pointed, unenthused. _It hasn’t reopened the Rift—that’s a relief, at least. But it seems I’m repeating the same day over and over…and no one else seems aware._

“How did you _see_ him over there?”

“I didn’t; I smelled him,” Dorian distractedly answered.

_I suppose that means it’s affecting a localized time travel. Shifting me, and only me, back by one day. But then… _He trailed behind the others as they tried to spook the druffalo into moving. _I wonder if the spell will still take effect if I don’t go anywhere near the chantry?_

In his distraction, Dorian became a little careless. Late in the day, he threw a lightning spell a little too close to Iron Bull’s arm. “Ow!” Bull yelled, without slowing the swings of his axe.

Dorian snapped back to the moment. “My apologies!” he shouted, spinning to throw Horror at another attacker. The bandit density in the Hinterlands was always amazing.

When the battle was over, he came forward as Adaar started looting. “Are you all right? I am truly sorry, I was not paying nearly enough attention to—”

“It’s nothing, big guy,” the Bull waved him off. There was a bright burn mark across his forearm.

“I beg to differ,” Dorian huffed. “It was unpardonable. A breach of trust on the battlefield is—”

“Yeah, well, I pardon it, so calm down.” Bull grinned. “Just a shame it won’t leave a scar.”

“Ah.” Dorian didn’t have anything wittier to add to that, unfortunately. He was a little taken aback by the brute’s generosity.

And in the tavern that night…

“You keep a pretty close eye on me, don’t you big guy? Counted all my scars yet?” Leaning in: “Maybe you think I need a few more?” A wink.

Momentarily stumped by this sudden change in what had become a familiar conversation, Dorian’s mind groped uselessly for a moment before he managed: “I honestly apologized for that, you lummox. What else can I do to make you drop it?”

Bull laughed. “It’s dropped, it’s dropped. I was just teasing you.”

Now Dorian was even more stumped. The conversation was not following the previous course, and he wasn’t sure how to get it back on track… “You? A tease?” he murmured automatically. “I’ve never heard that head-butting qualified for that description.”

“Hey, when have you ever seen me head-butt anybody?” And before Dorian could say anything: “You humans are all too short for that.” Dorian snorted in surprise. _Not denying it? _It was probably a joke. Bull joked about everything. _This is nowhere near the topic we discussed before…_

But then Dorian realized: _Oh. I suppose it doesn’t have to be. It was a stupid conversation anyway, and if I’m right about my theory, none of this matters; it will all be erased and repeated tomorrow._

As he came to this realization, however, Bull was finishing what he wanted to say: “But yeah, I can tease.” He leaned in. Lowered his impossibly deep voice. “If that’s what somebody likes, I can tease for _hours_. I can tease a person until they lose their _mind_.” He grinned, whispering, “I once had a guy so wound up that he came when I blew on his dick.”

Startled by yet another new turn, Dorian couldn’t help but imagine… “That…” He swallowed. “I think you’re making a mistake with Trade. I think you mean to say—”

“Nope. I don’t mean he came when I blew him. That’s easy. He came when I _blew on_ him.”

“That is not possible,” Dorian haughtily declared. An aloof tone was always easy to default back into.

“Oh it is.” Bull wasn’t touching him…but Dorian had experienced flirtations that were less sexually charged than this despite having a man’s hand down his trousers at the time. “Gonna ask me for proof?”

_You obnoxious, arrogant, bloody unrelenting…!_ “Oh, no.” Dorian rose smoothly and _placed_ his tankard perfectly on the table. “Whether you’re lying or not, I couldn’t care less.” He smiled. “I am _not_ interested in you—to be as plain as one may be, in Trade. Pity you don’t speak Tevene.”

_There, that was a more elegant exit again. Well done._ Dorian went up to bed quickly, before Bull could mention that he knew all the dirty words in Tevene or something like that.

\--

Dorian woke up, again, in a tent. Without having gone to the chantry. Without interacting with the spell at all. And Bull’s arm was clear and free of any burn mark today.

_So I truly am moving back through time. _He took careful stock of his surroundings that day. Everything was the same, as long as he did nothing differently. It was becoming a bit maddening, really.

“So what do you like in your men?”

Dorian recited blandly: “A distinct lack of blemishes, no scars. A lean build, a flat abdomen. Long hair…for pulling. Good teeth, high-arched feet, fair complexion, clean fingernails, a handsome face and a thick cock and…oh.” He blinked, smiling flatly. “Pardon the indelicacy.”

“Indelicacy?” Bull grinned. “Now you’re just being a tease.”

“Isn’t that you?” Dorian shot back, without thinking.

Bull sounded surprised. “I can be, sure. What have you heard?”

_Kaffas._ “Nothing I have any interest in, I assure you.”

That wasn’t his most elegant exit, but it would do.

Dorian examined the Veil-wrinkle spell in the chantry. _One good Dispel should take care of it_, he concluded. _I’m almost certain. I’d be concerned about snagging the Veil again, but Dispel’s energy travels in radial lines so it should be fine…even if it fails to end the spell, it can’t make the situation any worse…_

Just as he was beginning to frame Dispel in his mind, Dorian froze. _Wait a moment._

He looked at the wrinkle again, felt along it with his magic. It was perfectly unchanged, despite the number of times it had affected his movement into the past.

_Theoretically…this could continue for as long as I allow it. I have no way of casting this again…at present. But I could let this keep happening._

It hadn’t occurred to him yet simply because the repetition was so monotonous. But now, Dorian realized—_Everything resets after a day. I can do anything in that day…and the next morning it will never have happened._

Slowly, slowly, Dorian studied the Veil-wrinkle…and slowly turned away and went back to the inn.

_What would I do if I could escape the consequences?_

He’d kiss Commander Cullen and see how far down the man’s body he could get before Cullen punched him, and he’d not have to worry about losing their friendship.

He’d invite twenty or so soldiers to fuck him at once, and no one would call him a slut the next day.

He’d seduce Ser Morris. Or Rylen. Or—_of course_—he’d absolutely throw himself at Michel de Chevin and see if the fellow could be persuaded to look past the “Tevinter mage” problem.

And he’d do other things that didn’t involve sex! Naturally.

He’d get into a duel with Solas—a real no-spells-barred duel. Not that he wanted to hurt Solas. He just really wanted to know exactly how strong that quiet little guy was.

He’d steal that _thing_ Dagna wouldn’t let him near. He just wanted to examine it!

He’d raid Skyhold’s secret wine cellar! He could drink it dry, and then rather than have a hangover the next day, he could go back and drink it dry again. He could probably spend a week doing that, actually.

He’d _kill_ Livius Erimond. The little shit was still rotting in the cells, waiting for Adaar to deal with him. Dorian could claim the satisfaction at least once.

He’d…he’d _punch_ his father. 

Ah, but then, his father wasn’t here, was he? He’d gone back to Tevinter, and if the spell kept moving Dorian back a day at the end of each day, he could never get to his father that quickly. Come to think of it, he couldn’t get to _Skyhold_ that quickly. And nearly everything he wanted to do was in Skyhold. Here he was, stuck in the Hinterlands with two qunari and an elf. And two of the three were women.

Well. He could still get drunk.

\--

Dorian woke in his tent, blissfully fresh, with no hangover at all—even though he had broken into the tavern in Redcliff and drunk absolutely everything he could swallow, until he truly could not stand up, and finally lost consciousness. _Why doesn’t alcohol always work like this?_ he bemoaned to himself. _Well, at least my liver is all right._

“Sera,” he ventured, somewhere between wolf packs, “if you could wake up tomorrow and suffer no consequences for anything you did today, what would you do?”

She didn’t even glance at him. “I’m killin’ wolves, what’s wrong with that?”

“No, I mean…what if, at the end of the day, everything that happened that day was simply…undone? You could do anything, you could even kill me if you felt like it, and I’d be back to normal tomorrow.”

That got her to look at him, with a weird face. “You’re all right, Dorian. You don’t piss me off that bad.”

“Thank you, dear girl—what else, then? Would you shoot someone? Steal something? Have a wild night of passion with someone otherwise untouchable?”

Sera twisted up one side of her face at him. “Wot? If I wanna play slap-n-tickle, I do it. If I want something, I take it. If someone deserves an arrow in the noggin, they get it.”

Dorian sighed. “I suppose an amoral scoundrel lives without much concern for consequences as it stands.” Trying another tack, he suggested, “Well, would you confess your deepest, darkest secret to someone you never dreamed of telling but always wanted to?”

He got more blankness for that. “Wot secret?”

“Any secret!” Dorian huffed. “Anything you’ve never said before!”

“Hmmmm.” Sera frowned heavily and picked her nose, flicked away her findings, and scratched her ear. “Hey, Herah!” she yelled suddenly.

“Ehhh?” shouted back.

“I love you!”

A bronze, horned face popped up over a boulder, wide eyes staring. “No shit!”

“No shit, I do!”

The Inquisitor vaulted over the boulder and tackled Sera, smashing her face into her enormous chest. “Aww, I love you too!”

Dorian absented himself from the scene quietly, and prevented Iron Bull from going to investigate where the Inquisitor had disappeared to. “They’re busy,” he announced, “expressing their newly realized mutual feelings. But hopefully not consummating them,” he sighed. “Or we’ll be here all day.”

“Aww, they’re in love.” Bull compliantly sat down across from Dorian to wait. “That’s cute.”

“Nothing involving a member of your race can be termed ‘cute,’” Dorian corrected. “You are all much too large.”

“Qunari babies are cute,” Bull shot back. “They’re small.”

“Well, there are no babies on the other side of that boulder.”

“_Yet_,” Bull winked.

Dorian gave him a long look with wide eyes.

“What?”

“If you’re implying those two will make a baby, I’d like to know how you think they’re going to manage that.”

“Oh yeah…” Bull scratched his chin. “I forgot.”

“You _forgot_.” Dorian blinked at him. “With Adaar dressed like _that_.” Adaar had some very qunari armor she liked, which made her breasts quite inescapable.

“Yeah.” Bull scratched his horn. “I know it’s different here, but I still forget to think of her as a woman when we’re in armor.”

“You’re an imbecile,” Dorian declared.

Further insult-hurling was interrupted then by the appearance of Adaar, carrying Sera bridal-style.

“So, boss, we killing demon-wolves or what?”

“Mmm, sure,” she answered inattentively, mooning over her girl. “Let’s fuck ’em up.”

\--

The two of them were worse than ever in the tavern that night, and Dorian supposed he had only himself to blame.

“Look at that.” Bull sat beside him—again. “You can’t tell me that’s not cute.”

“It’s nauseating,” he snapped. “But…” Softening a little, Dorian added, “perhaps a little appealing, in a way.”

Bull chuckled. “Knew you had a romantic side, you big old fop.”

“The ability to be happy for my friends in their semi-conjugal bliss is the mark of a good nature; it does _not_ make me a _romantic_.”

“If you say so.” Grinned, and then Bull took a heavy drink of ale.

It was a necessary skill for any altus to be able to observe something very closely without appearing to even look in that direction—and so Dorian did. His attention zeroed in on Iron’s Bull’s throat bobbing as he swallowed, his neck so incredibly thick…

And then he belched, and Dorian shut his eyes. _I absolutely loathe him_, he thought. _The best thing to do would be to bite that throat._ Perhaps a few other spots as well. That would teach the Bull not to wander around with his muscles flexed all the time.

Actually, it probably wouldn’t. But it _would_ make Dorian feel better…

All this had passed through his mind before, and it didn’t matter. He was about to dismiss it, as he always did, and turn in early tonight, when he remembered—_Well, what’s the point? Tomorrow will only be today again._

And then—the epiphany.

The one self-indulgent thing he could do, right here, right now, without any aftermath—aside from drinking the tavern dry.

“Iron Bull?”

“Mm?”

“…Fancy a fuck?”

A long moment of a wide eye staring, blinking. Then a grin. “Just one?”

_You insufferable…_ He smirked. “I didn’t wish to imply any expectations that would make you feel inadequate if you couldn’t keep up with me.”

“Keeping it ‘up’ won’t be a problem, big guy.”

Dorian sighed.

\--

Dismal sense of humor aside, there were things to be said for the Bull. Not counting his size, even—that rather went without saying, in Dorian’s opinion.

“Stamina,” he murmured to himself, rolling onto his back and pushing sweat-soaked hair out of his face. “Patience…” he held up a hand and counted on his fingers. “A quick study, a skillful tongue, strength…”

“What’re you mumbling about?”

The bed dipped, and Dorian felt a warm, wet cloth on his skin. He blinked at the Bull—he’d already wiped himself down and was now washing off Dorian’s sweat…and so forth.

“Attentiveness,” he added with a sigh, glanced at his fingers—_Six for now_—and dropped his hand.

“Sorry?”

“Just some arithmetic, pay it no mind.”

A funny look. “You like doing mental math after a good conquering?” A grin. “I like a little tea and cryptology.”

Dorian spared Bull a scornful glance and rolled onto his side, exposing his back for Bull’s ministrations. “I’m simply measuring your positive qualities to see if they can outweigh your deplorable fashion sense.” And, as Bull began to say _aww_, and seemed likely to take that as a sweet sentiment—which Dorian had not at all intended, considering that he was still undecided with six good points against one bad, and Bull had other bad points after the pants, too—he added quickly, “And no—after a hard fuck I prefer a strong drink…and another round.”

Bull slid the washcloth between his cheeks—a little slowly. His voice lowered. “Yeah? That’s hot.”

“I did say I can be difficult to keep up with.”

“Wasn’t doubting you, big guy. I got a little flask of _maraas-lok_ here…”

“Before you offer me a drink, best make sure you’ll be able to get hard for me again,” Dorian warned.

“Told you that’s not a problem,” Bull purred.

He got up, and Dorian settled himself comfortably on the bed. He was pleasantly sore from a vigorous first round—on his knees, arms trapped in Bull’s massive hands, pounded into the mattress quite thoroughly—but not particularly tired. His back ached, but he had not been required—or able—to move much, and Dorian could handle bedroom activities that were considerably more athletic.

Bull handed him the flask, and Dorian tipped it up and let it run down his throat. Then he let out a long, slow breath—and did not choke or cough. He did clear his throat and point to the pitcher of water, blinking rapidly. Bull grinned and filled him a cup.

“Pretty impressive.”

When Dorian trusted his voice again: “Well, I can’t say much for the flavor, but it does its job.”

“It wouldn’t be qunari if it didn’t do its job,” Bull replied, chuckling and taking a drink of his own.

“Quite.”

“So…how do you feel about getting tied up?”

Dorian hummed. “It depends.” It was not his preferred way to have sex. “I’ve heard that’s something of a specialty of yours, isn’t it?”

“Only when people want it.”

“Indeed.” Dorian toyed with the idea. Bull had certainly done well in the first round, but that didn’t necessarily mean Dorian was ready to just throw himself into Bull’s hands. Of course, rope did nothing to render him powerless, but magically incinerating the bindings generally went against the spirit of things. Dorian didn’t necessarily mind submission, but at the moment he was interested in playing a more active role—up to the point where he had been briefly considering whether or not he wanted to top Iron Bull.

But then: _I suppose I can just do all this again, can’t I? If we don’t get to everything, there’s always tonight again tomorrow._

So: “I’m sure you’re eager to impress, but I’d rather not leave the _entire_ night in your…admittedly skillful—and large—hands.”

“Mmm…you want your turn, huh?” Bull rubbed his chin, studying Dorian’s nude body. Then: “How about this?” He fished in his pack and pulled out a dark cloth. “This’ll work for a blindfold.”

Dorian arched a skeptical eyebrow at him. “I believe I just said…”

“Yeah, I heard you.” Bull smiled. “Here’s what I’m thinking. You wear the blindfold, but you’re in charge. I’m not going to do anything. I’ll only move when you move me and I’ll hold still otherwise. You can do anything you want—except take the blindfold off. Good?”

He blinked. “You paint a rather…pretty picture.”

“Is that a yes?” Bull rumbled, approaching the bed again.

Dorian felt a smile tugging at his lips. “Oh yes. This will do.”

_Creativity,_ Dorian added to the list as Bull covered his eyes. _And…intuition._

The pants were still horrid, though.

Blindfold in place, Dorian groped his way to the foot of the bed. “Have a seat where I was,” he instructed. The bed lurched heavily in that direction as Bull sat. When he couldn’t see or prepare for the shift, it was so much easier to be unbalanced by it.

Stabilizing himself, Dorian reached out and found one of Bull’s feet. Remembering Bull’s boots and not wishing to linger there, he lightly traced his way up Bull’s legs, exploring with only his fingertips as he crawled closer, adjusting his position until he could touch where he liked.

The best method, Dorian supposed, was not to assume he knew exactly where anything was, but to trail his fingers lightly along until he found whatever he was after. Particularly when dealing with the most easily damaged part of a man. Even if he could always redo this tomorrow, Dorian had no desire to see this night end prematurely in genital injury. So although he was pretty sure he knew where the dick was, by now, he took his time getting there. The first round hadn’t given him many opportunities to touch and explore.

It was…unique, certainly. Running his hands over Bull’s body without being able to see it, Dorian kept coming upon scars. They startled his fingers with their rough ridges—because no matter how much he’d _looked_ and, yes, perhaps counted, that didn’t mean he knew them by touch. Following the lines of them, he could feel the way the flesh dipped around the deeper grooves. The tissue that had once been severed, then tightened back over the gap…

Dorian swallowed. Why was he so aroused by this?

“Want me to flex a little?” Bull murmured, a clear grin in his voice, as Dorian trailed hands over his massive arms.

The blindfold was so freeing, he realized. He didn’t have to wear such a thorough mask, now. There was only so much he could reveal; the eyes were the worst secret-tellers, and Bull couldn’t see his eyes. Dorian smiled. “Please do,” he murmured.

Muscles went hard under his hands, the shapes suddenly more defined. The cut of them immovable under his grip. The responsive, powerful living anatomy…

Breathing a little heavily, Dorian shifted closer, hands pressing Bull’s chest, running up and wrapping around his neck. _Maker that’s thick…_ His pointed ears felt strange in Dorian’s hands—delicate. His head felt small. His horns felt huge. And Dorian realized, for no reason, really, that he had come up here with Iron Bull, and stripped naked, and got on his stomach and taken a pounding, and at no point had either of them stuck their mouths together.

For a moment, he wondered if a kiss would be unwelcome. He began to analyze the night so far…then he remembered. _You can do anything you want, except take the blindfold off._

If that was so…

Fingers exploring, Dorian traced Bull’s features, his rough stubble, his smooth lips. Then he felt self-conscious about it, like perhaps the gesture looked too romantic. To offset that, when Dorian kissed Iron Bull, he made it the sort of kiss that usually made men lose control. Filthy and beckoning, impossible to forget. _Perhaps a waste of effort…considering the situation._ When this morning came again, it wouldn’t have happened anymore.

Iron Bull groaned into his mouth…and it was not a waste of effort at all.

Scooting a little closer—Dorian had been essentially sitting on Bull’s thighs—he felt his cock brush Bull’s rising erection. He heard a little hitch in Bull’s breathing. He moved his hand back down Bull’s arm and grasped his wrist.

Taking the massive hand, he shaped it into a fist—apart from two fingers—and moved it behind him. As promised, Bull let him do as he liked, and Dorian pushed those two fingers inside himself. “Don’t move,” he instructed. “You’re only keeping me open for now.” Then he pressed his hips forward and began to lazily rub against Bull, mouth wandering over his body.

“You got it…_nh_.” Dorian bit a nipple. Maker, how long had he wanted to do that?

It was no use thinking about the scent or taste of him. Bull had been in armor all day, travelling and fighting and sweating and getting filthy. He’d wiped himself off before the tavern, and again after their first round, but there was no pretending he smelled or tasted particularly clean. And there was no denying that a part of Dorian was viciously enjoying it, even as he sneered at himself. So—best not to think about it. Best to just let himself be aroused; best to just roll his hips and move his mouth and _bite_ in the blissful invulnerability of the promise of tomorrow taking all this away. He could indulge and then forget. He could have, savor, and then set aside—appetite so fully sated that he could laugh from now on at the very idea that he’d ever been so hungry.

He wrapped a hand around Bull’s shaft—then both hands. He was so hot and thick, there was just so _much_ of him… Groaning a little, Dorian leaned his head on Bull’s shoulder and reached lower. Carefully, he pressed beneath the heavy balls, rubbing. Bull’s whole body vibrated with a moan. Dorian shivered. He needed to hear that again.

“Take your fingers out,” he murmured, and as soon as Bull did, he sank down. Lying between Bull’s legs, he framed his cock with his fingers, guiding Bull to his lips. This and kissing—Dorian made men slaves to his mouth just like this. Wouldn’t it be delicious to glance over at Bull after a battle of some sort and just…lick his lips and watch his pupils blow wide in the post-battle rush? Wouldn’t it feel incredible to catch Bull looking at his mouth in an odd moment and just _know?_

_Ah, but this will be all gone soon…_

With that knowledge, Dorian _relished_ an act he typically enjoyed anyway. But there was enjoying and then there was…_this_.

He’d been tasting Bull leaking for a while, feeling his legs twitch, hearing his heavy breathing, when finally the man grunted, “Dorian…” Then: “You telling me to come for you…or are you gonna tell me to hold it in?”

He pulled off slowly. “_Can_ you?” he teased—or tried to, though his wrecked voice was a whisper.

“Good question,” Bull groaned.

“Mmm.” Dorian mouthed the hot shaft again, slowly stroking. “If I let you come, will you get hard again?”

“Another…_nngh_…good question.”

He grinned. “If you can’t, I know a spell…”

“Yeah? That’s good then.”

“Truly?” He wished he could see, just for a moment. He wished he could study Bull’s face, but taking the blindfold off was the only prohibition. “You’d let me use magic on you? On your cock?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

_To keep up with me? …To satisfy me? …To make me…happy?_

“Then come,” he murmured, and swallowed Bull down again.

It didn’t take long, and Dorian jerked him through it, lifting his head and feeling the hot splash against his throat and his chest. _What a picture I must make_, he thought. Then, dragging himself up, he anchored himself by gripping Bull’s horns, and he pulled himself to his feet and stood on the bed, close.

Feeling his way blindly, with only the instruction to “Open your mouth,” Dorian fed his own cock between Bull’s lips. He didn’t ask. He just took what he wanted.

If there had been a tomorrow coming, Dorian wouldn’t have done it. For being a man who declared to all and sundry how selfish he was, there was a fear in him that held him back in bed—at least in the beginning. He never treated men this way. He was afraid they wouldn’t come back. But all this would be forgotten soon, and Dorian could let himself go. He fucked Bull’s throat, pulling on his horns commandingly. And, as Bull couldn’t speak and Dorian couldn’t see, for a while there was nothing but the act itself, and no fear could rise to spoil it.

Bull swallowed his spend without being told, and Dorian sank down onto his legs again, sighing. His listless, wandering hand brushed…

“You’re…hard again. Already.” Dorian touched more fully. “Or…nearly so,” he amended.

“Yeah,” Bull purred, deep voice resonating through Dorian’s body. “That was hot.”

And without the option of searching his face for signs of pretense, Dorian felt himself somehow just…accepting this. _It was hot_. He stroked the only proof he needed. _Whatever I enjoy…he wants._

“Is there oil?” he asked, almost blearily.

“Yeah, here.”

Dorian held out a hand. “Pour me some.” When Bull did, he shifted back further. “Now lie down.”

Scooting lower, Bull moved under him. His cock dragged between Dorian’s legs, rubbing his balls. Dorian felt for it carefully, found it, and made an oily mess all over Bull’s groin before guiding the head into himself.

“Yeah…shit, look at you.”

“I’m afraid I…can’t,” Dorian gasped, sinking down onto Bull’s cock. “But…_oh!_” Taking Bull a second time was still overwhelming. He felt so deeply _full_. “You may look enough for both of us,” he moaned.

“You want me to do anything else?” There was a grin in that voice again.

“_Touch_,” Dorian sighed, then placed a hand in front of his groin. “Only…not here. Too sensitive,” he murmured.

“Got it.”

Big, hot hands on his legs, on his hips, caressing but not leading or guiding or even helping as Dorian rocked back and began to ride—_oh Maker_—ride the Bull.

What a glorious freedom it was to do everything by feel, his nerves lighting up, alive with sensation. Big hands squeezing his buttocks so that he tightened around Bull in return. Leaning back on an arm, putting on a show, growing hard again—though not fully. He’d need magic for that, at this point.

And in all of it, Dorian felt like nothing existed apart from Iron Bull. He was blindfolded but somehow inescapably aware of who was inside him, who was touching him. It was strange—if anything, he’d expected it to be the opposite, for the blindfold to make it easier for him to forget who he was sleeping with.

_Well. Blame his size._

He took hold of himself and squeezed, grinding down on Bull at the same time and setting himself off with the pressure on his prostate. His orgasm was nearly dry.

“You want me to—” Bull grunted as Dorian leaned forward and began to ride him hard. Reaching out, a hand at the back of Bull’s neck, Dorian pulled him up, kissed him—kissed and kissed and _kissed_ him, fucking him hard too—and then moved down and bit that damn thick, glorious neck and felt the prick of blunt claws denting his ass, and a heavy groan, and Bull throbbing inside him, pumping him full…

“Yes, thank you, that will do,” Dorian gasped. He reached up and fumbled with the knot at the back of his head, promptly gave up, and pushed the blindfold up and off. Then he grinned weakly down at Bull—soaked, a dark purplish tinge to his face, and all across his huge chest. “That’s not a bad look on you,” he panted, gently releasing Bull’s softening cock, rising up to let him slip out.

“Look who’s talking,” Bull rumbled.

“Everything looks good on me. Sex most of all.”

“That’s a fact.”

Dorian kept himself from collapsing on Bull by propping his weight on his arms. They grinned at each other, and Dorian added _flattering_ to the list, and sweat dripped off the tip of his nose and hit Bull’s eyepatch. Bull snorted. Dorian wiped the moisture from his face—“Sorry”—leaning back a bit.

With a big, rumbling exhale, Bull pushed himself up, and Dorian wobblingly shifted off his lap and let him rise. “How are your legs?”

“Oh, tired, but all right.” He watched Bull take a few funny, shuffling steps over to his pack. “What are you doing?”

Bull returned with a small pouch, grabbing the oil again in the process. “Gonna give you a little massage, if you’ll let me. We’ve got a lot more ground to cover tomorrow. Don’t want you to have trouble.”

Dorian caught himself before he laughed. He couldn’t exactly explain that “tomorrow” he would be as fresh as he was this morning—exactly as fresh. None of this would have happened. He could do it all again. He could do whatever else he felt like. Bull would never turn him down.

And he would never know.

A careful look. “Unless you don’t want me to,” Bull added. “If you’re not into touching after, that’s fine. Or you can use this stuff yourself if you like.”

“What is that?” Dorian asked, tipping his head toward the pouch Bull held.

“Crushed basil.” He held it open for Dorian to see the herb. “Mix it with the oil, it’s good for the muscles. Keeps them from tightening up.”

For a very, very long moment, Dorian just stared at him—the big, hulking brute with…nine good points? And countless bad ones.

“Hold that thought.”

“Sure…” Bull trailed off, watching as Dorian rose—as quickly as he could—and efficiently threw on his trousers, neglecting the smallclothes. He dropped an undershirt over his head, shoved his feet into his boots, and grabbed his staff.

“Don’t go anywhere.”

“Yeah, but where are you—?”

Dorian shut the door behind himself.

The chill of the night and the gentle sea breeze felt considerably colder than before on his sweaty skin. It was pleasant for all of four seconds, and then Dorian hurried to the chantry, already shivering.

The Veil-wrinkle spell was still there, still the same. Dorian stared at it for a long, long moment. He wasn’t thinking. He was just…bracing.

Then, before he could change his mind, he cast a good, strong Dispel over the entire area. It popped briefly, and the active magic faded away. Dorian examined the Veil. He could still feel the little scar, the wrinkle left by the Rift, but there was no longer an active spell here—he was almost certain. He avoided reaching out with his magic. It wasn’t necessary to use magic to make sure, and he didn’t want to risk triggering something again.

At last, he turned and slowly left the chantry.

Then he _hurried_ back to the warm inn.

Pausing outside the door to his room, Dorian finally let himself think. And the first thing he thought was—_I cannot believe I just did that._

He opened the door. Bull looked up at him. “Hey. That was quick.” He had wiped himself off and was rifling through some papers. He’d made tea.

“Are those cyphers?” Dorian asked, entering the room and setting aside his staff and kicking off his boots.

“Yup. Tea?”

With a sigh: “I might as well.” Dorian shucked his shirt and stripped his trousers off. _Ugh. They’re all stained. I’m going to regret this so much tomorrow._

The brute with all the flaws poured him tea, and Dorian accepted the massage after all, and mentally kicked himself, but not too hard…because he’d realized that the tenth point in Iron Bull’s favor might just be _respect_. 

So what else could Dorian do?

\--

Dorian woke up in his room in the Redcliff inn, half-plastered to a rather pungent, oversized qunari.

“Your moustache is a mess,” Bull said with a grin.

_Ugh._ Dorian rubbed his eyes and twisted his moustache uselessly. _Why in the name of Andraste. It’s not as if he cares if someone takes advantage of him. And I—_ Dorian sucked in a breath and stopped his attempt to get up.

“_Ow._”

“Ow? You sore?”

Dorian hissed. “My legs and back are considerably better than expected, but there is another problem.” He pointed at his pack. “You’re going to have to get me my medical kit.”

“Sure.” Bull got up. “Something I can help with?”

“I’m going to put an elfroot salve on my asshole, so no, just get me the kit.”

Bull snorted. “I can help with that.” And he _smiled._ He didn’t _leer_.

Dorian _tsk_ed. “Don’t be _kind_. Of all things, right now, don’t be _kind_. I really am not interested in discovering an eleventh.”

“Uh…what?”

Dorian buried his face in the pillow, but had to raise it again to take the kit from Bull. “Never mind. What’s the saying in Ferelden? I’ve made my bed and I must lie in it?”

“You kinda lost me, big guy.” Bull pulled on his… _Oh dear, the pants._

__“Yes, well.” Dorian propped his head on a hand and looked up at Iron Bull. Whatever he did now, he was stuck with last night. He sighed, thoroughly displeased with himself and his choices…and also relieved. He’d done the right thing, and he knew it.

Then, imperiously, Dorian commanded, “Now then, if you’re so eager to help, find a way to get a bathtub in here. And bring me breakfast in bed. And do something about my clothes, they’re filthy. And once you’ve taken care of all that, I shall tell you a story about magic and my bad decisions, and then I shall thank you very generously, if you like—and if we still have time before Adaar is ready to set out.”

Bull studied him. “You always this bossy after sex?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Why?” Dorian smiled. “Are you interested in finding out?”

Bull shook his head, chuckling. “Thought I’d been pretty clear on that already, but yeah.” Then, without waiting for a response, he turned to the door. “Boss and Sera won’t be out any time soon. It’ll be a late start, so take your time with the salve. I’ll be back.”

“What? Why won’t they?”

Sticking his head back in, Bull grinned. “After that love confession yesterday? You kidding?”

_Vishante kaffas_. Dorian had forgotten. “I regret _everything_,” he grumbled to himself, poking around in his kit for the salve.


End file.
